Faking It with the Frenemy

“I didn’t hire her,” Wyatt says. “My company did.”

Boohoo. Like they’d hire somebody without consulting him first.

“She can’t do what you can,” Dane says.

From someone else, that would be an empty platitude to soothe my ego and manipulate me. From Dane, it’s equivalent of a Nobel Prize.

Yeah, but it isn’t Dane who you have to work for. It’s Wyatt.

Wyatt, who’s looking at me skeptically. Wyatt, who took my virginity to win a bet, then dumped me within a week to move on to Geneva.

Makes me wonder if this “bet” was also his idea.

Would it be justifiable homicide if I stabbed him with my fork? I could get lucky and hit a major artery. And I know a lot of good lawyers, having worked for Salazar for a few years.

“You’ll basically only have one job,” Wyatt says finally. “Find me a date for a wedding.”

I raise my eyebrows. That’s such a ridiculously easy task that nobody should take four freakin’ weeks to get it done.

On the other hand, we are talking Wyatt. So maybe that’s what’s making this such a challenge.

Still, I’m not interested in working for him, even on something as silly and easy as finding him a date. “Get your assistant to go with you,” I say, barely preventing myself from sneering. The hot co-ed he must’ve hired should be able to pull it off. It isn’t like you actually have to appear smart or make interesting conversation at those things.

“Can’t. She’s married with two kids.” Wyatt’s expression indicates there’s a lot more to it than that, but he won’t be saying any of it out loud.

Still, it makes me blink. Because it isn’t even a real date, and it shouldn’t be that big of a deal for an assistant to make herself presentable for an afternoon on a weekend and some overtime pay. It isn’t like anybody has to know she’s married. How much of a dud did he get? He must’ve seriously pissed somebody in HR off. Not a surprise, given his personality. “So try Tinder. Get your assistant to screen the candidates.”

“He needs someone hot enough to make a statement,” Salazar says.

“This is L.A. It’s full of hot women.” He should know. He’s probably fucked half of them.

“Ah, but are they hot enough to stick a knife in his ex-wife’s heart and twist it around?” Salazar cocks his head at me. “For that, you need someone a step or two above just any old hot chick.”

“Ex-wife? Is this Geneva’s wedding?” I choke the words out, utterly disgusted. Spend a perfectly fine weekend pretending to congratulate that traitor? I’d rather sleep on a nest of wasps.

Wyatt looks dyspeptic, but I don’t care. “Why would you do that? Are you trying to win her back? You’d be better off just swallowing a bunch of arsenic.”

Dane gives me a reassessing look, like he’s just realized I’m not a total moron. Just a regular moron, which is what he labels people with IQs over one hundred and five.

Meanwhile Wyatt is bristling. “Why is none of your business.”

Huh. Well, I should’ve expected this kind of rudeness. He was a dick back in high school, and he’s an even bigger dick now that he has money.

The fact that he’s trying to crash Geneva’s wedding makes me want to help just a tad. I can ask my super fashionista friend Jo to help me outshine the bride, and wouldn’t that just piss Geneva off to no end? On the other hand, the idea that he’s trying to win her back makes me not want to help…not even a little. I’m sure Geneva can make him miserable. That’s her forte, making everyone around her miserable because she can—something I realized too late. But apparently he’s even more miserable without her, so I’d rather he stay that way.

That’s the least he deserves for the way he treated me back then.

I look over at Dane. “Excuse me.”

“What?”

“Move. Get up. I need to go to the ladies’ room,” I lie, since I’m sure he’s not budging otherwise.

Dane slides over

and stands up. I do the same, then turn back to the table. “You know what? I don’t have to honor the outcome of some dumb bet. I’m not”—I search for the right word—“chattel you can just trade around. If you have something to collect from Salazar, Dane, it’s between you two, not me. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to the office. I’ve already wasted enough of my lunch break, and haven’t had anything to eat yet.”

“You’re leaving?” Salazar asks. “But you haven’t had the crème brûlée.” He knows it’s my favorite dessert, especially when it’s from Éternité.